


Of Chaos and Art

by domesticghost



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 23:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30029433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticghost/pseuds/domesticghost
Summary: Rory is tasked with writing a human interest story about media mogul Mitchum Huntzberger, but things become less simple when his son Logan enters the situation. AU.
Relationships: Lorelai Gilmore & Rory Gilmore, Rory Gilmore & Logan Huntzberger, Rory Gilmore/Logan Huntzberger
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Good Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> I can't seem to get these two off the brain. This is an AU set ahead in the future, but all of the core relationships as of the season 4 finale are more or less the same -- if you squint, this could be an "If Rory and Logan never met at Yale" type situation.
> 
> Just a little note before you read: I have this entire fic outlined (yay) and a clear plan of where it is going. However, I am not 100% if the projected 10 chapters will remain just 10. We'll see how things go as I continue to write more chapters. The "M" rating is for future chapters.
> 
> I made up Thinkpiece; a very surface level Google search yielded no results in terms of it being a magazine that actually exists. So if it is a thing, my b. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for checking out my fic. Enjoy!

“Hold the elevator!” Rory calls out frantically, her voice echoing off the marble walls of the voguishly minimalist lobby. The time on her watch reads 9:48. She picks up her pace.

On a normal day, she would have the time to wander through the space and quietly assess her surroundings. On a normal day, she would get up to the twenty-second floor with a half hour to kill, and she would sit and people watch and take notes. Really get a feel for the work environment and atmosphere.

But today is not one of those days. 

Today is the day that Rory, for whatever reason, manages to sleep through not one, not two - not even  _ three  _ \- but  _ four _ separate alarms, rendering her less than twenty minutes to ready herself for a potentially career-defining meeting. Today is the day that, despite her very best efforts, she misses the first bus on her route anyway. The day  _ that _ bus makes every possible stop and inevitably gets held up in commuter traffic. 

She crosses over to the elevator in what has to be record time.

The doors pause and then ding and slide open again. Standing in the elevator cab is a blonde man about her age, impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit that could very much probably cover the cost of three months rent on her Boston apartment. He’s handsome in a way that feels equally God-given and thoroughly cultivated.

He acknowledges her with a nod and an obligatory hello.

“Thank you, thank you,  _ thank you _ ,” she says appreciatively, a bit frazzled and out of breath from her run across the foyer. “Your Good Samaritan badge is in the mail. Expect it in 7-10 business days.”

He responds to this with a laugh. It’s a courtesy laugh, surely, but it’s friendly enough. Warm. Rory gets the immediate impression that he’s the kind of person who would have Charming and Delightful listed as special skills on his resume if he could. 

“Running late?” he asks, as the elevator doors start to close.

“Yeah. I mean, I’m not, normally,” she says, admittedly a little unsure of why she’s making any sort of defense for herself. She shakes her head. “Ha. Such are the joys of public transit.”

“Keeps life exciting,” the man grins again, politely. Though just judging by his appearance alone, Rory doubts he actually can actually relate. “What floor?”

“Um, the twenty-second.”

“Huntzberger Publishing?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Rory nods. “That’s the one.”

He gestures to the illuminated number 22 on the elevator’s button panel. “Well, then. What are the odds? I’m headed that way as well.”

“Oh. Do you work in publishing?” she asks. 

The elevator begins to shift. Rory uses the mirrored surface of the doors to adjust her hair and ensure that she doesn’t appear as rushed and disheveled as she feels.

“In some ways,” he replies passively..

Their gazes meet in the reflection. “A man of mystery,” she says dryly. 

He smirks. “In some ways,” he says again, pointedly ignoring the sarcasm in her voice. 

Oh, so he’s annoying, then.

“What is the purpose of your visit today, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I have a meeting with, um, Mitchum Huntzberger?”

A brief but detectable look of sympathy flashes across his face. Rory does not know what to make of it. 

From what she’d been told by her grandparents, who seemed to be loosely acquainted with the Huntzberger family, Mitchum sounded nice enough. Intimidating, maybe, but in the way men with money often liked to be perceived.

“The man himself!” The enthusiasm in his voice feels forced but he still tilts his head in what seems like genuine interest. “Do tell me more. I’m intrigued.”

“Well, I write for Thinkpiece. You know, the magazine?” Her company nods in recognition. She continues. “Anyway. They’re interested in publishing a story about him for their  _ American Dreams, American Schemes _ series. I have a meeting scheduled to pitch the story. See if he’s interested.”

He actually laughs out loud now. “Yikes, I’m sorry. How exactly did you land that gig?”

Rory frowns. Not really a reassuring response. 

“Well, gee. Now I’m nervous,” she says, voice dripping with sarcasm as if she wasn’t already on edge to begin with. He doesn’t have to know that, though. “Thanks a lot.”

“Hey,” he remarks. “Good Samaritan, remember? Just doing my part, here.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” she adjusts the strap of her bag. “I might be rethinking that now.”

“Aw, well. Unfortunately for you, my badge is already in the mail. Nothing you can do about it now,” he teases, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, you’ll be okay. I was only messing with you. Mitchum is pleasant enough.”

Rory fights the urge to roll her eyes.

But still. His badgering does offer some comfort. She smiles in spite of her own nerves. “Do you know him?”

“I would say we’re familiar.”

Rory glances at her watch again, just as the time flashes from 9:53 to 9:54. She wonders how that’s even possible. This has to be the longest elevator ride of her life. 

She bites her bottom lip and tries to center herself. 

“Got any tips for me?” she asks.

“Well, you’re already late. That’s not great. But apologize for it - don’t  _ dwell  _ on it - and you should be fine. Eye contact, obviously. That’s a given. Be confident. Show no weakness and no mercy,” he advises, almost in earnest. “I know that sounds kind of overdramatic, but I’m serious.”

“Uh, okay. Got it, General. Thanks.”

“He’ll come across all smiley and friendly, but Mitchum has perfected the art of weaponizing politeness and thinly-veiled microaggressions,” he continues. “If at any point the conversation heads in the direction of small talk, veer away. He hates small talk. Uses it to weed out who he considers to be feeble and uncultured. Those are his words.”

Her gaze shifts downward. She nods, taking in this information. “Okay. Good to know.” 

“And how’s your grip?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your handshake?”

“Oh, of course. It’s good, I think.”

He gives her a questioning look, unconvinced.

“Right.” She clears her throat. “It’s phenomenal. Firm. I’ve broken many a-man’s fingers in my day.”

He smiles again and takes another step toward her, extending his hand out in greeting. “Logan.”

She blinks, a little thrown off by this new proximity. He smells like coffee and French cologne, and something else she can’t place. Something smoky and sort of sweet. 

She takes his hand in hers and shakes it. “Rory.”

“Not bad,” he says, and lets his eyes linger on hers. For a split second it’s hard to tell if he’s just referring to her handshake. “Well. Good luck, Rory. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

And then, as if on cue, the elevator doors slide open again and Logan disappears into the hall.

Rory exhales deeply and follows suit. With one high heeled foot in front of the other, she crosses the threshold into the office space before her.

Unsurprisingly, Huntzberger Publishing takes up the entirety of the twenty-second floor. In contrast to the building’s lobby, this one is full of life. Opulent paintings and sleek, expensive office furniture. To her right, a seemingly endless hall of offices. On her left, a receptionist’s desk.

A petite bottle-redhead in a burgundy sweater greets Rory and leads her to an office at the end of hall. She introduces her to the subject of her piece.

“Mr. Huntzberger,” she chimes as she opens the door. “Rory Gilmore is here.”

“Ah, yes,” he addresses her amicably, shaking her hand. “My 10’o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” she nods, trying to keep her nerves steady. His assistant closes the door behind her. “It is so nice to formally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from my grandparents.”

“It is 10:06,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“I know. I apologize. I understand how busy you must be,” she shifts a bit, mouth twisted into a frown. “Thank you so much for your time today, Mr. Huntzberger.”

“Please,” he gestures to one of the chairs angled strategically in front of his desk. “Sit. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like anything? A glass of water? A cup of coffee?”

Rory is seldom one to turn down a cup of coffee, but she imagines it would do nothing but add to her nerves at the moment. She takes a seat in one of the oversized chairs.

“So, Ms. Gilmore,” he settles into his own seat. “How are Richard and Emily?”

“Oh, you know. They’re great. They’ve been traveling a lot. They just got back from a trip to Prague.”

“How nice,” he replies. “From my understanding, you’re quite the writer. How long have you been at Thinkpiece?”

“Just over six months,” she tells him. “I did a lot of freelance before that, mostly.”

“I see,” he nods. “Six months and already landing a big league interview, if I may humbly say. Pretty impressive.”

“Oh, you know. I’m grateful for the opportunity. And I hope to do the piece justice, of course.”

“Please. I’ve seen the column. It’s a human interest story, for crying out loud. I’m sure you couldn’t fumble it if you wrote it with your eyes closed.”

She shifts in her seat. She gets the feeling his intention is to be reassuring, but his words and the tone of his voice only come across as condescending. 

In person, this close, Mitchum Huntzberger manages to be simultaneously more and less unnerving at the same time. Jovial, but almost wolfish. The phrase “weaponized politeness” echoes in her head.

“Right,” she speaks, her voice firm. “Mr. Huntzberger, I’m going to be honest with you.”

He straightens his posture and leans forward. 

“This can be a simple human interest piece. It would be easy. I’ve done my research, sir, and there’s plenty to write about based on that research alone. But I am not a lazy writer,” she says. “I would like for this to be a story that speaks for itself. Something authentic. And I think that if your career alone has proven anything, it’s that you have something authentic to say.”

The space between them falls silent, but Rory has a feeling that she has him. Men, specifically those in a position of power, are easy. They will rarely resist an opportunity to talk about themselves, especially if you let them believe whatever they have to say is somehow for the benefit of mankind.

“Miss Gilmore, I am going to be honest with  _ you _ ,” he finally says. “My schedule for the next month or so is less than ideal. We are in the middle of a merger, and I am booked solid. I mean this as no offense to you, because while I may not know you very well, I do believe you are a gifted writer. Intelligent. But I only took this meeting with you because I am an old friend of your grandfather’s.” 

Rory feels her stomach take a dip. All her efforts to land a feature story, and she could barely manage to secure a puff piece with her grandfather’s old smoking buddy. 

“But, I think you’re right. There is potential here for something interesting… So, I’ll tell you what. I believe I have a half hour available this Friday at 9:30 if you’d like to sit down then. Have us a candid chat over a cup of coffee.”

She sits up a little straighter and scribbles the date and time on a fresh page in her journal. She underlines it twice. “9:30. Works for me. Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, no. Don’t mention it. I look forward to reading what you have to say,” he says cheerily, rising to his feet to lead her toward his door.

Mitchum opens the door and steps out into the hall. “Logan?” he calls out.

She hears Logan sigh as he reappears seemingly out of nowhere. “Yes, sir?”

“Will you please escort Miss Gilmore to the elevator? And have Chantal validate her parking.”

“Oh, I didn’t drive here,” she barely manages to get out. 

As if it matters, anyway.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gilmore,” Mitchum says, shaking her hand once again. “I look forward to our next meeting.” 

The door shuts behind him.

And that’s that.

Logan grins at her once the office door is shut. “So?” he implores. “How’d it go?”

“It went… well,” she responds after a beat.

“You don’t sound so sure,” he notes. “I’m sure you did great. Did he agree to do the interview?”

“He did,” she answers as she falls into stride alongside him.

“That’s great,” he says. He seems legitimately sincere. “Ace Reporter, on the case.”

An older woman crosses paths with them in the hall, carrying a comically large stack of folders in her arms. 

“Good morning, Mona,” Logan greets her. “Busy Monday?”

“Makes no difference what day it is,” she says. “They all end in ‘y’ for me.”

“I am liking the new hair cut.”

“Thank you,” she says, raking her fingers through her blown out bob with her free hand. “You’re the first person here to notice. Took my husband an entire day to even comment on it.”

“Men, I tell ya,” he rolls his eyes. The not-so-subtle art of pandering. “Well, it’s working for me.”

“Oh, if only you were twenty years older, Mr. Huntzberger,” she says dreamily, and continues along her way.

Rory ignores his shameless, patronizing attempt at flirting and fixates instead on how the woman addressed him.

“Wait.  _ Huntzberger? _ You didn’t tell me you were Logan  _ Huntzberger _ ,” she shakes her head. “God, I should have put two and two together. I have spent the better part of the last week reading up on your father. I  _ knew  _ he had a son.”

“That sounds  _ unbearably  _ fun.” Logan grimaces. “You caught me.”

“‘ _ We’re familiar, _ ’ he says,” she refers to his comment from earlier in the elevator. “Why wouldn’t you just mention he was your father?”

“ _ ‘A man of mystery,’ _ I believe she called him,” he jokingly refers back to hers. “Well, you’ve met the man now, so you tell me. Is that something you would lead with?”

Rory shrugs. In his defense, she could understand not wanting to advertise that you work for your father, especially to a random acquaintance. 

They reach the elevator, and Logan turns on his heels to face her.

“Well, I’m afraid this is the part where I bid you adieu,” he says. “I’ll have Chantal arrange an Uber for you.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.”

“Do you prefer Lyft?”

Rory shakes her head. “No, no. I’ll just catch the bus. It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, thank you.”

“Alright, then. If you say so,” he concedes. 

He locks into her gaze with his own and grins. She notices now that his smiles always seem to reach his eyes. Every time. Who the hell actually smiles like that?

In a sudden move, he leans over her to push the button for the elevator, his arm brushing hers in the process. The contact is brief, but it takes her aback.

The elevator opens then, and Rory steps inside, turning so she faces him again.

“Nice meeting you, again,” she says politely. “And thank you again for earlier.”

“Anytime,” he replies with a wink and a wave.

He begins to walk away from the elevator, back toward the office. Rory watches, half expecting him to turn back and cast another look in her direction.

She can’t tell if she's disappointed when he doesn’t.


	2. lucy in disguse (with diamonds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates won't be this regular - I hope you don't get too excited, haha. But I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and could not wait to post it. Hopefully you all enjoy it, despite there being very little Logan - it's the only chapter (that I have planned so far, anyway) without much of him, though!
> 
> If you saw me change the title of the fic, no you didn't <3  
> It's still borrowed from a Dermot Kennedy song, "Outnumbered."

“Okay, okay,” Rory thinks, tapping her chin with her finger. “How about… _‘Excuse me, while I kiss this guy.’_ ”

“Oh! Please!” her mother’s voice fills her ears through her headphones. “You’re hitting me with ‘ _Purple Haze_?’ That’s got to be the most commonly misheard song lyric of all time. You insult me. You might as well have hit me with ‘bald headed woman.’ Do you not take this game seriously at all?”

“No one should take this game seriously,” she hears Michel say in the background.

As per usual, Rory and Lorelai both ignore him. 

“Bald headed woman?” Rory asks for clarification.

“Who raised you?” Lorelai feigns disappointment. Then, she breaks out into song, “‘ _Bald headed woman, bald headed woman to mee-eee-eee!’_ ”

“ _Oh_ , the Bee Gees,” she laughs and hums the beginning of the next verse in the song. 

Michel groans. “Great. Now _that_ is going to be stuck in my head all day.”

“Um, you’re welcome,” Lorelai tells him.

Rory watches as he pointedly turns to roll his eyes at the screen before continuing on about his business.

“Well, I’m all tapped out of misheard song lyrics at the moment,” she says, drumming her fingers on the edge of her laptop. “How’s Luke?”

“Oh, you know. He’s fine. Very Luke-like.”

“That’s good. Just how I like him.”

“What about you, kiddo?” her mom asks. “Any guys?”

She sighs. “Mom.”

“Girls?”

“ _Mom_.”

“What? I’d be fine with it.”

Rory rolls her eyes.

“If you tell me you think you are destined to become a spinster, that’s cool too.” Lorelai snaps her fingers. “Hey! Can I make you a whole new dramatic spinster wardrobe?”

She ignores her mother’s taunting. “If you must know, I... have a date tonight.”

Her blue eyes widen in surprise. “A date? My Rory? I, for one, am shocked. Shocked, I say! Michel! Our Rory has a date!”

His response is muffled in the background. “How very nice for her.”

“So, what’s he like? What is his name? How’d you meet?”

“Mom.”

“Yes, we’ve established that I am your mother,” Lorelai quips. “One day, honey, you will settle down with a nice man - or _woman_ ,” she winks at the camera - to which, Rory suppresses a chuckle, “and you will be with that person for many, many beautiful years. You will share your lives together; the ups and the downs and the TV remote. And you will hopefully look at your person with newfound appreciation and renewed respect, each and every day of your lives together. 

“But concurrently, my darling one, you will realize how much you long for these days. These days where you were single and seeing what’s out there, where everything is exciting and new. I only hope you yourself have a child of your own to live vicariously through.”

It’s moments like these that Rory is the most convinced of Luke’s love for her mother. There is no other explanation as to why any sane, stable person would be able to tolerate so much Lorelai.

“I am telling Luke you said that.”

“Okay, fine. Make sure you emphasize the first part of my little speech, though. And while you’re at it, mention how good I think his lovin’ is.”

At this point, Lorelai wins. Rory concedes just to shut her up. “His name is Raymond.”

“That’s it? That’s all I get?”

“He is a veterinarian.”

“A vet,” she nods. “Interesting, interesting. Where’d you meet him?”

Rory bites her lip.

“You met him on a dating app!” Lorelai gauges.

Honestly, how is her mom always able to do that?

She folds her arms across her chest. “What? No.”

“Yes, you did! Rory met a boy on the internet! Miss ‘No-Thanks-Not-For-Me.’ Miss ‘I’m-Not-That-Desperate-Yet-Mom.’ Ha. I guess desperation finally won.”

“Shut up,” Rory blushes. “He seems really nice.”

“Okay. I’m kidding, honey, you know that,” she replies, softening her tone. “No judgments here. A woman has needs. When was the last time you had a-”

“How’s the inn?” Rory cuts her off, changing the subject entirely.

“Oh, you know,” Lorelai says with the shrug of a shoulder. “Same old. We’ve got that big wedding this weekend, so things are a little hectic at the moment.”

“The Lieberman Wedding?” she asks, recalling the last conversation they had.

“Yes! But oh! Get this - the best man and maid of honor… Both corgis.”

“Wait, what?!”

“I know! I literally just found out. Luke lost his ever-loving mind, as you’d imagine.”

Rory laughs at the mental image of Luke, huffing and puffing in an impassioned blaze of annoyance. “I can imagine, actually.”

“I for one _cannot wait_. How about you, kid? How’s that story coming along?”

“Oh, you know. It’s fine. Coming along. I have an official interview set up Friday morning.”

“Exciting!”

“Yeah. He seemed nice. You know, he knows grandpa and grandma?”

“Oh, yeah? Who is this again?

“Mitchum Huntzberger.”

Lorelai snorts. “Geez. What is he, a deodorant heir?”

“Ha ha. Very funny,” Rory deadpans. “He owns several different newspapers, and they’re still acquiring more.”

“Hmm. Very ‘don’t fish eat other fish,’” she says. “Well, that’s great, sweetie. Hopefully it all goes well.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Rory glances at the time. She’s been sitting at this same table for over an hour now and has barely gotten any work done. 

“I should get going, mom,” she excuses herself. “I’ve got some notes to sort through and turn into brilliant, thought-provoking-yet-palatable questions.”

“Mmk, honey. Please visit soon. We miss you.”

“Miss you too, mom. I will.”

“ _Soon_ , please,” she echoes. “And wear your lucky bra tonight.”

“I don’t have a lucky bra.”

Her mother gasps. “You _don’t_? Huh. Maybe that’s part of your problem.”

“Bye, mom. Love you.”

“Love you, kiddo. Buh-bye.”

As soon as she ends the video call, Rory opens an empty word document. She opens her notebook and clicks her pen several times, trying to collect her thoughts enough to put them into comprehensible words.

But the more she thinks about this interview, the more she thinks about Friday. And the more she thinks about Friday, the more she wonders, against her own better judgment, if she’ll run into Logan Huntzberger again.

If you give a mouse a cookie, and all that.

As though anyone in the coffee shop would even care, Rory coyly glances over her shoulder to make sure no one is watching her. She opens a private web browser and types into the search bar: _logan huntzberger_.

Her search yields a few pictures; mostly pulled from Huntzberger Publishing Group’s website, it seems. His LinkedIn page, the company’s Facebook. His Instagram profile.

His _Instagram profile_. She hovers the cursor over the link and hesitates before clicking it, her eyes shifting around the cafe. 

His page, surprisingly, is set to public. She would have pegged him as someone who kept his social medias private, at the very least for the sake of his father’s company, but on second thought… that doesn’t seem like something that would concern him very much.

The first few pictures are snapshots from what seems to be a recent vacation to Aruba. Sunset pictures undoubtedly taken from a beachfront hotel room, a picture of Logan laughing at a bar standing between two men his age with his arms draped around each of their shoulders. His captions are all short, undecipherable phrases; undoubtedly inside jokes.

The men appear in multiple pictures throughout his feed, as does a woman who Rory deduces to be his older sister based on the username he consistently tags in photos. 

It doesn’t occur to Rory that she’s looking for pictures of other women until she scrolls more and finds them. There’s no one woman in particular, but a series of them. Logan posing for pictures at bars with tall Nordic-looking blondes and lounging poolside with a bikini-clad brunette. 

She notes that the pictures of him with these women are all dated more than 8 months ago, and then finds herself wondering why this sort of content suddenly stopped. 

A girlfriend, perhaps? It’s possible. Rory can’t think of one woman she knows who would be fine with their boyfriend posting about his escapades with anonymous women.

But if there is a girlfriend, why no pictures of her? It’s peculiar. But she barely knows him; maybe he’s the type of guy who keeps his actual relationships private.

None of this is any of her business; she shakes her head and closes out of the private tab.

She refocuses her attention to the blinking cursor on the word document.

There is work to be done.

  
  
  


The restaurant her date had picked out is, in a word, swanky.

The outdoor dining area sits on the waterfront, offering an impressive view of the other side of the city.

Rory approaches the restaurant cautiously. This is her first date in awhile, but also her first date with someone she hasn’t actually spoken to in person yet.

She remembers Paris’ insistence that people - women, in particular - should inform a minimum of 2-3 people of their whereabouts, especially in situations such as this.

Procuring her phone out of her bag, Rory shoots both Lorelai and Paris a picture of her location. 

Within seconds, she receives a response from her friend:

**Paris:**

_“Okay. Enjoy your date._

_I’ve heard that place has really good lobster tails. If you survive tonight, let me know if true._

_Also, a friendly reminder to use protection.”_

Rolling her eyes, Rory turns her phone screen off and steps into the restaurant. Her eyes scan the crowd for her date. It dawns on her now that she’s only seen three pictures of him. She wonders if she’ll even recognize him.

“Rory?” she hears a male voice call from behind her. 

The owner of the voice, thankfully, looks just as handsome in person as he did in the photos on his profile. 

“Yes!” she says, smiling at him. “Hi, Raymond. It’s nice to meet you.”

Absentmindedly, she reaches out for a handshake. He laughs at the interaction.

“How formal,” he jokes.

He has dimples, she notes. Dimples are good.

When he shakes her hand, she finds herself paying an abnormal amount of attention to the firmness of his grasp.

“Well, we are formally meeting,” she laughs back at him.

They are approached by the restaurant’s host, who leads them to a table out near the waterfront. It’s a chilly night to be sat outside, but Rory doesn’t mind; the view is lovely.

The date is going well, at first. Raymond is nice enough; he’s a good listener, and laughs every time she makes a bad joke.

Somewhere along the line, though, beyond her comprehension, the conversation veers into the territory of sports.

Rory nods along politely as Raymond shares his thoughts on recent NBA drafts, or something of the sort. She even recognizes some of the names he throws out. But he loses her entirely when he begins to rhapsodize about the quiet athleticism of competitive billiards.

Her attention shifts to her phone screen, which illuminates upon receiving a message from her mother. A response to the picture she’d sent earlier:

**Mom:**

_“Fancy!!_

_What kind of bra are u wearing???”_

She smirks.

Raymond notices.

“Something funny?” he smiles at her, cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh, just… Just my mom,” she dismisses the message by swiping the notification away. “Checking in with me. I’m sorry. You were saying?”

Before he can answer, his own phone goes off. “I am very, very sorry. This is my office. Do you mind?”

“By all means,” Rory takes a sip of her drink and waves him off.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he mouths as he saunters off with his phone.

She returns her attention back to hers.

**Mom:**

_“How is it going???”_

Rory types out a reply: 

_“Meh. He’s nice, but the date’s a dud._

_He’s simultaneously too nerdy and too jock-y for my liking.”_

**Mom:**

_“You like burgundy, right??”_

She rereads the message twice and shakes her head.

_“??????”_

She hits send.

**Mom:**

_“Black is classic but predictable._

_If my baby is going to be a spinster, she might as well do it in style._

_The Gilmore reputation is at stake, here.”_

**Rory:**

_“Wow._

_Ignoring you now.”_

**Mom:**

_“Ok. Please text me when you get home.”_

**Rory:**

_“I will. Bye now.”_

Rory places her phone face down on the table now and awaits for her date’s return. Her eyes search the dining area, quietly assessing her surroundings.

Around her are other couples on dates. Mostly people her age; this place seems to attract a hip crowd. A group of college aged girls sit at a table nearby, audibly giggling as they clink their assorted glasses of red and white wine. 

A loud but indecipherable proclamation from across the floor catches her attention. A party of five cheer loudly as a bottle of champagne is popped open. That’s when she spots him; Logan holds up the bottle and pours a generous amount into a brunette woman’s glass.

She watches the group, studying the way Logan’s eyes smile at one of the other girls in his company. Rory considers that maybe this is the girlfriend she speculated about, but she quickly dismisses the thought when one of the guys heavily featured on his Instagram page leans over to kiss her. 

It’s this kiss that makes Rory drop her gaze; it’s intense and sloppy, a drunken public display of affection.

It’s just as well. A moment later, Raymond returns to the table, slipping his phone into the inner pocket of his blazer.

“I am so, so sorry that took so long.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Rory says politely, drinking again from her glass.

“We have this puppy being kept overnight for surgery. She’s got a little separation anxiety, it seems.”

“Oh? Poor thing. Is everything okay?”

Raymond nods. “Yeah, yeah. My assistant is new. Just wanted to make sure she wasn’t forgetting to give Lucy anything. That’s the dog. Lucy.”

The dog’s name prompts Rory to think of the game she and her mother had made up earlier in the day. She shakes her head and laughs to herself.

“Where were we?” her date begins, transitioning back into their conversation from earlier.

_Lucy in disguise,_

_with diamonds..._


End file.
